Who Is the Rascal Cat Chuck, Really?

                Chuck, the rascal cat, loves to travel. But, as you can well guess, he’s not on the road 365 days a year. So, here’s a peek into Chucky’s life when he’s not risking his life and doing all those crazy things we love him for.

 

How Chuck Came to Be:

 

            First things first: I like to say that I adopted Chuck, but the truth is—he adopted me. He was rescued from a field near a paint ball factory. From the first day he was rough and ready—a bit feral—but I still remember the first time I saw him. He was bouncing up and down, doing everything he could to get my attention. His twin sister, Ella, stood quietly by his side. Chuck and Ella were the first orange and white cats I’d ever brought home, and I wasn’t at all prepared for their bigger than life personalities. Here, I’d like to give a big shout out to Tabby’s Place—a cat rescue shelter—that housed Chucky and his twin and to Karina, who rescued him and tried to knock some civilization into him.

 

His Older Brother, Jack

 

            I had help when I brought the rascal home. Jack, my tuxedo cat, the alpha male of the house, made sure that Chucky minded his manners. If he did something that Jack didn’t like, he would nip the tip of Chucky’s ear, and then look up at me, as if to say—I had to do it, Mom. I immediately gave Jack carte blanche to do anything within reason. Chucky was wild in his younger years. He’d climb Christmas trees and cat body slam any feline out of the way if it meant he could get at their food. He also had to go outside everyday—rain or shine. Like the mailman. He didn’t care if his paws got wet or muddy. Let’s just say he got nipped a lot by Jack.

 

His Twin Sister, Ella

 

            Ella also kept Chucky in line. One day Chucky went outside and disappeared for about an hour. We learned later that he’d discovered a catmint garden a few houses down and couldn’t resist raiding the garden and getting high. When he finally returned home, tipsy but happy as can be, before I could say a word, Ella marched over, gave him a good sniff, let loose with a few choice words, and smacked him in the face. Chucky ducked his head, but he didn’t say a word. He knew he deserved whatever Ella dished out. Truth was he hated disappointing her and kept a watchful eye on her always. But the two of them together—what mischief they could get up to.

 

His Older Sister, Molly

 

            Molly was a very petite cat, part Ragdoll, who Chucky insisted on playing with, even when she wasn’t interested. He’d stalk her from room to room, and then when no one was looking, he’d leap on top of her. We’d hear a louder than loud meow coming from the upstairs landing. Chucky’s weight on top of her practically squished the life out of her. Needless to say, Molly forever greeted Chucky with a hiss, which he couldn’t quite understand. All he wanted to do was play.

 

 

You Can’t Go Home Again

 

            I’d like to say that the four cats lived happily ever after, but as time went on . . . Molly went over the rainbow bridge first, then Ella, and then just recently Jack.

 

            It’s hard to know what to say to the one that stays behind. We, of course, gave Chuck extra hugs and kisses and lots of treats. We tried to keep the routine. I even became a cat for a day.

            Finally, we're ready to talk about the future. 

 

            “Chuck, Mom and Dad want to bring home a brother for you.”

 

            Chucky makes a soft meow. (It's only recently that he realizes that Jack isn’t coming back home. That he didn’t just go to the hospital. This time. That Jack actually walked across that rainbow bridge.)

 

            “What do you think, Chuck?”

 

            Chuck looks up thoughtfully from his snack.

 

            “We’re going on Monday to hang out with him for a while. Do you want to come?”

             As I ask the question, I'm wondering if it's a good idea to bring Chuck with us. After all, there's a certain protocol to bringing a new cat into a household. We have our eye on a little boy, three years old, who's been rescued from a laboratory that did testing on animals. He's bound to be shy and will need some time to adjust to his new surroundings. And Chuck will still need to feel that he's loved and not being replaced by the new kid on the block. 

             Before he has a chance to say anything, I interject, "We'll tell you all about him when we get home."

                                       To be continued . . .

 

            

Chuck and His Journey to the AfterLife

        What do you do with a cat who has a crazy idea? The rascal cat somehow got it in his head that if he climbed on board an Egyptian solar boat, built and buried for the pharaohs thousands of years ago and now rebuilt and put on display, he could be transported to paradise.

      Yes, that paradise--the afterlife, the land of milk and honey where life is beautiful all the time. 

      I knew that Chuck's misconception was the result of half listening as Dan and I discussed whether we should or shouldn't stop and see this amazing boat. We were in Giza, and after we passed the luscious looking Sphinx, whose sole purpose was to guard all the pyramids:

 it was a hop, skip and jump to reach the Solar Boat Museum. We were only trying to figure out what the archaeologists actually believed was true about this boat.

      The debate centers on whether the boat was built and buried near where the pharaoh was buried BUT was only meant to be symbolic--a way that the pharaoh would ascend to the heavens, after death, to be with his father. OR was the boat built to be actually used during the funeral to move the body of the pharaoh in the river to the pyramid, where he was buried. 

     Some scholars claim there was evidence the boat had been in water. Other experts point to the fact that shavings of cedar and acacia found in the pit where it was buried indicate it was located near where the pyramids were.

     To further complicate the matter, the boat was the right size to serve as a river craft, but a mast was never found. 

      Chucky doesn't care about any of these arguments. He latches on to one fact and one fact only. The pharaoh used this boat to get to paradise. 

       We are walking along the side area that is set up for visitors to view the assembled boat, which is massive. You have to figure the boat was built for a pharaoh. The pyramids were gigantic. The boat would have to be super sized too. 

        There are a few people around, but not many. This is not a very popular exhibit. Chucky is itching to get down, but we're nervous that if we let him loose, he'll actually make a jump for the boat. 

        The kid always has had a super active imagination. 

        Dan tries to assuage my anxieties. "Chuck is very pragmatic. He's not going to make a jump for it. He'd never make it and most likely plunge to his death. He'll just stare at that boat for awhile. He'll reach his own conclusion."

        I'm not as confident. We're talking about a kid who's climbed a palm tree. Who climbed into a space capsule. 

        Dan is in the process of setting Chuck down. My heart is beating furiously. I wedge my body between Chuck and the boat. I have to think of something to say to him to convince him that getting on that boat is a bad idea. I need a powerful argument. 

        Chucky is leaning to the right to look around me. He is clearly fascinated with this boat.  Is he dreaming of his journey to the afterlife?  

        I decide in a last minute desperate attempt to keep my cat alive that I will go along with this ridiculous idea.

       "O.K. Chuck, but, just know. There's no coming back. You'll never see me or dad or Jack (his brother) again."

        Chucky shrugs.

        "O.K. You'll never get another . . . snack again." I put on a very sad face. 

        Dan echoes my statement. "Not another snack again."

        I repeat. "No more snacks."

       And then I do, what I think I'll never do, I step aside. 

        Chucky walks to the edge and stares at the boat. Then he turns and comes back to us. He doesn't say a word. I heave a sigh of relief. 

        Dan says, "I think he should get two snacks when we get home."

        "Absolutely," I agree. I pick up this rascal cat and give him a big hug. 

        It's only later, as I mull over the facts of the incident, that I ask Dan in the car going back to the hotel, "Do you think he really was going to jump or was he just playing us?"

       

        

        

Chuck and his Devil Spirit

          

    When we left off last week . . . we were in a heck of a predicament! Was the photo of Chuck evidence that he'd been taken over by some kind of devil spirit? 

       I stare at the photo carefully then look back at Chucky. 

     He looks the same as always in person, but in the photo, he looks different. 

     Dan makes the connection first. "You don't think something happened to Chucky when he went down with us into the pyramid, do you?"

     I don't want to believe it. "No . . . that's impossible. Besides, there was nothing down there. And nothing happened to us. Well, nothing much."

     I don't want to remember the climbing into the pyramid experience. What seemed like a good idea at the time--getting a once in a lifetime opportunity to climb into a pyramid--turned out to be a bit more arduous than we imagined.

     Pyramids abound in the Sahara Desert in Giza. Centuries ago, before they were "tampered with"--cleaned out, robbed, etc., they were not only the tombs of the ancient pharoahs but also the repository of their treasure. Nowadays, of course, they are empty shells. Still, they have an allure that's hard to pass up, and after our camel ride, we decide to grab an opportunity and climb into a pyramid.

     We form a plan. Dan will take Chuck, stuffed into his backpack, hoisted on his back. I'll go first. 

     To access this particular pyramid, you have to go in from the top and then climb down approximately 300 narrow steps in the relatively pitch blackness. 

      To get to the top, you climb on a rickety metal stair that leans against the pyramid. In some places the stair has no railing. As you navigate each step, higher and higher, it's a good idea not to look down. If you slip and fall, it would be the equivalent of falling off the roof of a very tall house, or, perhaps, a small hotel. The stairs are also slippery. 

      Surprisingly, I have little trouble navigating this part of the journey. There's a gentle desert breeze blowing. No problem. But Dan doesn't like heights. In fact, he might even have acrophobia, a fear of heights. For him, the higher we go, the more uncomfortable he feels. 

     "You can do it," I tell him.

      He's not really listening. Breathing hard. He stops, and I figure--this is it. He'll be stuck on this metal ladder thing forever. But, no, eventually he moves forward. Slowly.

        When we get to the top, we have to turn ourselves around and enter backwards. Literally, we squeeze ourselves through the opening to a small landing. Then we begin to climb down the steps. It's dark and stale smelling. There are small lights positioned every 10 steps or so, but all they do is create shadows. 

        This is the worst part for me because I'm claustrophobic. I close my eyes and begin to count--anything to take my mind off of where I am and what I'm doing. Don't think about what could go wrong, ie. do pyramids ever self implode? or what if one of us sprains an ankle? 

      Meanwhile, Dan is doing great inside the pyramid. He's literally flying down the steps, singing a happy song. No problem. 

      We reach the bottom. Chucky is bouncing around, sniffing everything. Even though there is basically nothing here. I mean nothing. It'a big empty room. Who's idea was this? I'm thinking. 

       Then, of course, as we're marveling at the sheer notion that we are actually inside a pyramid, Chuck disappears. 

        Luckily, cell phones have flashlights, and we're able to track him down within minutes. He's wandered off to an adjacent room, climbed onto a shelf, and somehow managed to squeeze himself into an area about half his size.  His sticking out tail gives him away. When he hears his name, he turns himself around.

        BUT when we call for him, he won't come out.

        When we reach for him, he backs up so we can't reach him.

      I open my backpack. "Maybe Chucky wants a snack."

         Chucky's ears tilt forward.  

         I hold out the tidbit, and the standoff is over.

         "Too much stimulation," I say. "We need to go home."    

        Getting out of the pyramid is just as arduous. Climbing up 300 narrow steps in semi-complete darkness while you feel the walls closing in is no picnic. Dan sails up the steps, humming while Chucky say nothing. 

         Outside, with the wind at my back, I climb down the rickety metal staircase to the sand below. Dan and Chuck CRAWL down. 

          Chucky is very quiet on the way back to the hotel as our van maneuvers in between camels, vans and pedestrians. 

        We go swimming in our beautiful built in pool while Chucky watches us from the window of our hotel room. 

         I take a selfie.

     That's when I snap Chucky's photo. The photo where Chucky doesn't quite look like himself.  Where he looks like he's been taken over by some ancient Egyptian devil spirit.

          And that's when I begin to put two and two together. In those few moments when he was out of our sight. In that adjacent cubby hole type room. Did something happen? 

         "What should we do?" 

          Dan is always the voice of reason. "We'll go to dinner, and google how to deal with ancient Egyptian spirits when we get back."

         But there is no need. When we return, the rascal cat is sleeping peacefully. Snoozing. Purring up a storm. We can tell the crisis is averted. 

        Chucky may be a rascal, but he's no devil! 

             

            

             

          

    

Rascal Chuck Rides a Camel in Egypt

                 A few months ago my sisters and I and Chuck, the rascal cat, visited a small zoo in Pennsylvania. Much to our surprise, they had camels—an animal you don’t usually see except, of course, if you’re in Egypt.            

            In fact, Chuck’s obsession with camels actually started in Giza, Egypt—the first time he came face to face with a camel and decided that he just had to ride one.

            Now, cats have a long-revered history in Egypt. Dating back to the Egyptian gods (one god was depicted with the head of a cat) and the Pharoahs who valued cats for protecting them (in one case killing a venomous snake), you can find evidence that Egyptians loved cats. For example, there are cat skeletons in pyramids with small pots that most likely contained milk for the cats. You can also find mummified cats, amulets with cat heads, murals of cats showing them as part of everyday life, cat statues, and even cat cemeteries. I can go on and on.

            The upshot of all of this is that Dan and I are not concerned in the least that we're bringing a cat into Egypt. We figure the Egyptians will be thrilled, and Chuck will be treated like royalty. After all, he is a very special cat. The Egyptians will certainly be able to see that. Right?

          Full disclosure: When Chuck first mentions wanting a camel ride when we're still back in the USA, it sounds farfetched. When we're sitting in our hotel room in Giza, gazing out at the pyramids, it's quite easy to schedule one. Now this will be my first camel ride. Since Dan grew up in Egypt, he's an old pro. Chuck finds nothing unusual about wanting to ride a camel, whatsoever.

           Take it from me.  The desert in Egypt is a surreal experience. Close your eyes and imagine you're in a scene from Lawrence of Arabia. There's sand, of course, everywhere. Pyramids stand majestically in the distance. Camels laze around complacently, waiting for the typical tourist to arrive so they can do their thing. 

            Our guide wears a long flowing green robe, a smartly styled mosaic scarf, and modern reflective sunglasses. He greets us, never blinking an eye that Chuck wants to ride, too.  How many camels--he wants to  know. I expect him to ask if we want the standard, deluxe or super deluxe camel ride, but, no, he is a serious guide, and there's no funny business.

        Camels are big. I have the same sensation mounting the camel that I do whenever I get on top of a horse. It's something I want to do, but when I'm right there in the moment, that horse . . . that camel is big and the seat looks very far off the ground. Somehow I manage to get myself on top of the camel while Dan holds Chucky. 

        Dan tries to hand Chucky up to me, but I need a minute. The view looks different on top of a camel. Suddenly, frantic thoughts besiege me--falling off the camel thoughts, dropping Chucky thoughts. 

        "Okay." 

    

         Dan tries again, but this time, Chucky is the reluctant one. He wiggles around. 

          Our guide immediately steps forward. "Maybe he wants his own camel." He's about to wave his friend over, who just happens to have a spare camel lounging around.

           I look at Dan, and he looks at me. We don't say a word to each other. We're each too busy imagining what that would be like-- Chucky, holding the reins as he marches across the Sahara Desert on a camel.

        Suddenly, a brainstorm: "Let Chuck sniff the camel."

        I should know my cat better. Humans need to see their environment. "Let me see it," we say. Cats needs to sniff. They can get a world of information when they inhale. 

        The rest is easy. Chucky sits in my lap. Dan mounts his camel. We are off.

         If you're curious, riding a camel is a bit like trying to sit on top of a seat that goes up and down and sideways at the same time. I wouldn't try to drink a cup of coffee while I was riding a camel  or shoot a photo. But you can look around and see the scenery. And if you have an overweight cat in your lap, he'll stay there, his face jutting out stoically to the Sahara wind. Sniffing, sniffing, sniffing.

       Later, back in our hotel room, I say to my not too spoiled cat, "Do you realize how spoiled you are??"

        But Chucky, always up to something, usually rascally, poses in a nearby window. I snap his photo. 

         "Gosh darn," I say to Dan, "doesn't he look just like an Egyptian cat?"

           "With those black eyes," Dan says back, "he looks more like he's been taken over by the d----"

            To be continued . . .

            

         

        

        

            

      

        

        

        

        

Chuck and the Giant Goldfish

     I should have titled this blog: Chuck Loves Fish. Or maybe Chuck Loves to Watch Fish? Chuck Loves to Eat Fish? Actually, I wasn't sure when we found the pond, what the end result was going to be.

     After the Jethro Giraffe incident, when Chucky decided he didn't even want to sniff Jethro, we decide it's better that our next outing with Chuck be a low-keyed affair. 

    We discover quite by accident--my friend named Barbara tells me--there is a delightful 300 acre park, botanical gardens and woods in Hamilton, NJ open to the public that she's recently visited and highly recommends. Although the Sayen House and Gardens began in 1912 when Frederick Sayen purchased it with his wife and began collecting plants and flowers from all over the world, it became municipal property in 1988 and was finally opened to the public in 1991. 

    Today the property boasts 1,000 azaleas, 500 rhododendrons, over 250,000 flowering bulbs on display as well as ponds, bridges, gazebos and walking trails near babbling brooks.  We're determined to see it all.

    

    And there is parking. Which is always a plus. We leave our car, with Chucky in tow and start walking down one of the white pebbled paths. Everything is in bloom, well-tended and sparkling. We find a bench and Dan poses for a photo while I keep an ever present eye on the Chuckster.

    A wood chipped trail leads into a shaded wood. The temperature in late afternoon is perfect--low seventies. Birds are tweeting. There's a faint scent of honeysuckle or something sweet in the air. We pass a few people, but not many. We fantasize we are in our own private wood and going out for a leisurely stroll. 

    "Chuck," we say, "you're not just an ordinary rascal cat, but you're someone special today. These are your woods, Chucky. Your birds. Your trees. Your bushes."

    Chucky is prancing along. For a cat who likes to sniff, this is paradise heaven. We cross a wooden bridge and . . .

 

suddenly, we face a pond, surrounded on all sides by trees and bushes. In the middle of the pond, a fountain shoots water into the air, which fans out into a perfect arc.

    There's something about water--lakes, ponds, brooks--that makes everything better. We decide to walk around the lake, and that's when we see them.

    The fish.

    And realize. This is a giant fish pond. 

    Chucky sees them too. The fish seem to sense we're there, and for some unexplainable reason,  start swimming near us. 

   Dan and I start counting the fish. We count close to a dozen. But Chucky doesn't care about how many fish there are. He's only interested in one fish in particular.

    A giant goldfish, sparkling in the sunlight, has spotted Chucky and now begins to swim in gigantic circles in front of him.  

   

    "Look at that, Chuck." I point to the fish, but Chucky is more than aware. His eyes are glued to the fish. He steps closer to the pond, weaving his way between the bushes and other obstacles in his path. 

    I'm not concerned. Cats hate water. There's no way he's going to jump in that pond. I'm certain of it.

    That darned goldfish swims even closer to the shore. 

    

    Chucky spots an opening, a pathway that leads right into the pond.

   

   Now I'm panicking. Does he want to swim with the fish or eat him? Can he even swim? Doggie paddle? Cat paddle?

    "Chuck, read the sign."

    

   I, of course, panick for nothing. The rascal cat only wants to get a closer look. He's read the sign and understands quite clearly the rules. He's never had any intention of harming the fish. 

   Later, as we relax in the gazebo, he says, "You know, mom, sometimes you're just too much." At least that's what I think he says.

Chuck And Jethro, the Giraffe--It's Complicated

     I love to tell the story that I kissed a giraffe years ago while on safari in Kenya. Her name was Daisy. There's a trick to it. You put a nugget of food between your lips, and the giraffe swoops down to retrieve the food. That contact, when her long black tongue (which is about 18 inches long) touches your lips--very gently--is the kiss.  

    The giraffe is the tallest living terrestrial animal so if you want that kiss you have to stand on a platform. Their heads are also big--much bigger than you imagine if you've only seen them from a distance--so you must remain calm as they move in closer. You also have to buy into the marketing that goes something like this: Giraffes have the cleanest mouths of all the animals in the wild. Sounds good. It could be true. Probably is. But how clean are all the other animals' mouths? Just what am I comparing a giraffe to? 

    But it's a magical experience. 

    Chuck heard the kissing Daisy story, of course, and most likely harbored a secret longing to kiss a giraffe like Daisy himself. I could see the twinkle in his eye whenever I mentioned Daisy or giraffes in general.  

    "That was Kenya, Chuck. In Africa. Trust me. I was visiting a giraffe sanctuary in Nairobi (www.giraffecenter.org). No one is kissing giraffes in America. The best we can do is gaze at them in awe and/or feed them." 

    In a zoo or sanctuary. 

    Even feeding a giraffe is never easy. In Kenya if you happen upon a giraffe in the wild, you are seeing them from a distance. Getting close enough to feed them would be difficult. They rarely sleep and have an excellent sense of smell. They are kind, gentle creatures, except when they feel threatened. They can run up to 35 mph, but if they decide to stay and fight, a giraffe's kick can severely wound or kill, even a lion.

    Chucky listens to all the vital information about giraffes. I have tons of photos because they are my favorite animal. Dan and l think Chuck knows what to expect. 

    Chuck's best option is a wild animal park in Pennsylvania. There you can feed a giraffe named Jethro. This amazing animal park schedules feedings several times a day. Chucky seems primed and ready to go. 

    Our first glimpse of Jethro is when he glides out of his habitat to take a look before he appears on stage. Giraffes walk differently than most four legged animals. They move their front and back legs on the right side together when they take a step. The same thing happens on the left side. That's why they look as if they're gliding along the ground.

    Jethro is amazingly popular, and when he comes out, it seems like every single person who has come to the animal park that day has gathered there to feed Jethro. Everyone has a handful of carrots to give him. The crowd is bursting with excitement. Moms, dads, kids, grandparents, teenagers, and well, everybody, is talking and laughing, pointing and snapping photos. 

Jethro is the star of the show. 

    My lovely sister Cyndi is the test case. She somehow manages to make it to the front of the crowd. With her carrots. She gets to reach out and wait while Jethro mosies over and eats the carrots out of her hand. To see a giraffe's face so close up--it's priceless. 

     I can feel Chuck next to me watching everything. I'm thinking he's just dying to get closer to Jethro. Undoubtedly, he imagines me picking him up and hauling him through the crowd so he can look Jethro in the eye--cat to giraffe--and sniff him.  

    After Cyndi is finished, I hand her my cell phone and make my way up to the front. I am test case number two. I know it's silly but I reach out and pet Jethro. I only have a few seconds of ecstasy because there is a plethora of anxious everybodies who want a chance to touch or feed this wonderful giraffe. 

    It's now Chucky's turn. I reach down to pick him up, but he backs away. What? A change of heart? I'm truly astounded. I try again, figuring he just needs a moment. But no, Chucky has decided--sniffing Jethro, coming face to face, nose to nose, is not his cup of tea.

    Later when I try to talk it out with him, try to figure out why he had the sudden change of heart, I get absolutely nowhere. Only then I realize that, perhaps, Chucky is more lion than I've given him credit for. Everyone knows lions and giraffes don't mix. Maybe it's instinctive, and I need to let it be. It's complicated.